


Instinct

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealous!John, Lackinginsituationalawareness!Mycroft, M/M, New Relationship, Possessive!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a bear trap laid somewhere out there, out on the mysterious frontier that is being in a relationship with John Watson, and it’s got Mycroft’s name written all over it in John’s stout doctor’s scrawl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt. A Jealous!John prompt. Tasty, tasty.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

John is glaring, and Mycroft is not entirely sure why.

He’s sure it has nothing to do with the business trip he has only just come home from. John had sounded well enough on the phone two days prior, if a little worn out from Sherlock’s latest caper, so he’s mostly sure it’s something else.

John pointedly turns his face away, presenting Mycroft with a portrait-perfect view of the muscles ticking in his jaw.

Somewhat sure. Maybe.

“How was your day, John?”

“Fine.”

Mycroft knows he’s one of the most intelligent people in the world, but even he has his limits, and John’s current mood is well beyond those. There’s a bear trap laid somewhere out there, out on the mysterious frontier that is being in a relationship with John Watson, and it’s got Mycroft’s name written all over it in John’s stout doctor’s scrawl. He supposes that, after a few years of living with John, he’ll be experienced enough to manoeuvre his way around these painful little surprises, but they’re barely six weeks into this relationship, and every successive day that they’re together is a new record for Mycroft.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks. He’s tired and jetlagged and can still taste the processed chicken the Chinese airline had seen fit to serve on the plane, but it’s late afternoon and John hasn’t eaten and that’s the only thing that matters.

John softens enough to face him again , this time sans glare. “No. They didn’t give you food on the plane?”

He chuckles, relaxing. “Nothing worth eating. How does Thai sound? A new restaurant opened not far from Whitehall-“  _snap_ “-that has gotten excellent reviews.”

_Ouch._ And just like that, John is glaring again. Though it is a relief that John isn’t actively angry at  _him_ . He’s just angry at something else that pertains to Mycroft, which leaves Mycroft at precisely square two.

“Or we can order in. As you like.”

John snorts and manages to look simultaneously irritated and amused. He does have such an expressive face.

And since the jig is apparently up, “You’re upset,” he says, because six weeks has been just enough to learn that  candour is often the best policy when it comes to John.

There’s that irritated fondness again. “And you’ve absolutely no clue why. You’re looking at me like I’m a n IED you’re about to step on.”

But Mycroft Holmes is stupid in love with this blond man and his quirky grin and gun-callused hands and as such is rapidly becoming a dab hand at sacrificing his dignity on the altar of John Watson, so he cuts to the grovelling. “Will you please tell me why?”

For a brief moment, the fond overpowers the irritated , but the steely glare comes right back and John stiffens, unconsciously straightening his posture.

“I saw your interview,” he says.

The customary post-period pause folds out into an awkward silence and Mycroft takes it as a cue to respond.

“And you…didn’t like it,” Mycroft replies. He usually hates hearing people state the obvious and absolutely despises being forced to state the obvious, but at that moment JohnandMycroft is a no-dignity zone.

“That woman, the one who was interviewing you,” John accuses.

Mycroft waits a beat for the rest of a sentence that clearly isn’t coming. John is apparently going to make him work for it, because John Watson does passive aggressive with a Javelin Anti-Tank Missile. He thinks he should be angry at John for making him sacrifice his dignity so thoroughly and so often, but all Mycroft ever seems to want these days is to see John smile at him, so he bares his belly at the slightest provocation.

“What about her?”

“She was flirting with you,” John snarls. All the fondness has evaporated from his face.

A score of possible responses flash through his mind, ranging from ‘Don’t be ridiculous’ to ‘Was she?’ Each is worse than the previous and Mycroft suddenly realizes that he has somehow stepped into a minefield without noticing. The C4 is so thick under his metaphorical feet that he can almost smell it. He gropes for a response while resolutely ignoring the flash of lust that raises the hairs on the back of his arms and heats the pit of his belly. Something about candour…?

He decides to go with a tentative, “She was.” And she really had been, as Mycroft recalls. He also recalls being rather annoyed with her simpering.

“And you were flirting back,” John growls, voice as black and sharp as obsidian.

Mycroft feels the snare cinch tight like a noose around his neck. It somehow doesn’t matter that he hadn’t actually been flirting, or that he didn’t and still doesn’t have the slightest interest in the woman. For the first time he feels a very real worry. He had forgotten, amidst all the excitement and fresh happiness of a new relationship, that John possessed a morality that saw murder as a viable option even in a civilian setting. He had forgotten that John Watson could be  _dangerous_ . He had forgotten. Big fancy brain and he had forgotten that, under his woolly-jumpered façade, John Watson was still a wolf. Mycroft looks John straight in the eye and, seeing that predator staring out, feels his intellect freeze like a pinned rabbit.

Something dusty and pale stirs at the back of Mycroft’s skull. It uncurls and stretches its atrophied limbs, unfolding into the vacated space. Some part of Mycroft wonders what it was.

_Instinct_ , it purrs. And then it hurls him to the ground at John’s feet, fingers curling into warm, worn denim, and just like that John bears him to the ground, pinning him flat as he tears at Mycroft’s suit.

Later that night, in the cold pre-dawn hours, Mycroft wakes, stretches against the ache of vigorously abused muscles, and grins like a loon at the thought of being so thoroughly desired.


End file.
